


we will share the weight

by crashing_meteors



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:35:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26952253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crashing_meteors/pseuds/crashing_meteors
Summary: Jet and Song meet in a marketplace. They're young, orphaned, and hungry. It's only natural they'd gravitate toward each other.
Relationships: Jet/Song (Avatar)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	1. when i was young i followed blindly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Work and chapter titles from Ezra Bell's "They Think We're Stupid".

The first time Jet sees her, she’s crying.

It happens so quickly he has to do a double-take. One second the girl is openly crying in a steady stream, and the next she looks like she had never been crying at all.

He’d think she was faking, but when she turns her head just the right way, he can see the shine of freshly-shed tears streaking down her cheeks. He watches from a distance as she wipes casually at her face, trying her best to look like everything’s fine, like her whole world isn’t crumbling, and goes about her day.

Jet can recognize a fellow survivor anywhere. She’s pretty young to be out alone, and clearly used to putting on a mask. He doesn’t know if she can fight, but it doesn’t matter. There’s a few young kids in their group, just because they had nowhere else to go. The Freedom Fighters, as he’s recently settled on calling them, take in anyone who needs their help

She disappears in the crowd of the town, and he lets her. He’ll find her the next day.

Sure enough, she’s at the market the following morning, speaking with the vendors. He watches from the shadows as she gets turned away again and again, sometimes with an accompanying shove. But the sellers themselves aren’t the interesting part. What fascinates Jet is the way she changes her face before each stall. This time she’s charming, personable, a wide smile and a tittering laugh. Now she’s a weepy child, begging for a meager handout. He knows it’s tiring, constantly changing faces like that. After all, he does it himself. And despite the rejection she keeps at it, rearranging her features and pushing on.

After what has to be at least a dozen failures, the girl finally receives some scraps. She bows her head, and the exhausted gratitude in her eyes carries all the way over to his thundering heart.

I have to take care of her, he thinks, and he follows her through the crowd of the market.

She moves quickly, but that’s nothing new. Young girls don’t tend to disappear in small villages like this, but you can never be too cautious. And homeless young girls are very rarely missed.

She ducks into an alleyway, and he waits, making certain they’re not being followed, before rounding the corner and -

And she’s got a needle to his neck.

“I don’t want to kill you,” she hisses furiously, but her voice is shaking. “So don’t make me.”

He raises his hands slowly. She’s got the needle held firm, and her hand is still, but he can see how afraid she is, how her free hand trembles. She may not want to kill him, but it’s certainly a possibility if she doesn’t calm down.

Okay. So maybe she doesn’t need to be taken care of. But he’s still going to try to help her.

“I brought you something,” Jet says, nice and slow, trying very hard to channel the calmness he usually has when talking to new kids, but the situation doesn’t really make it easy.

“I don’t want anything from you,” the girl says bitterly, “except for you to stop following me.”

“I’m trying to help you,” Jet snaps. Her eyes narrow and he takes a deep breath.

“Look,” he tries again, “I have food, better than that crap I bet. It’s in my bag, why don’t you take it and I’ll leave you alone?”

The tension stretches between them, a thin cord growing thinner by the second. He notices for the first time, in the silence, how kind her eyes are. Even in her suspicion, even in her anger, they’re warm and welcoming. It knocks him a little off-balance.

“I don’t want you to kill me either,” he says at last, and, embarrassingly, his voice breaks a little.

The girl’s expression softens. She chews at her lip for a few seconds, and finally relents to inspect what’s inside his bag, keeping the needle near his neck. With her left hand, she produces a dumpling, and her face lights up.

“Stole it this morning,” Jet says smirking. “They’re a little cold, but they’re good.”

“You shouldn’t steal,” she says seriously, and then promptly removes her hand from his neck to hold the dumpling to her mouth and chomp down on it. Jet retrieves one for himself and mimics her, sitting down agains the ally wall. She joins him.

Wordlessly, they agree to split the third and final dumpling, and they both pretend very hard not to watch each other.

“I’m sorry,” she says, breaking the silence. “I’m so used to looking over my shoulder all the time, I just assumed -“

“I get it, believe me,” Jet says with a wave of his hand. “I shouldn’t have underestimated you.”

She smiles at him, a real, genuine smile.

“No,” she agrees, eyes crinkling. “You shouldn’t have.”

A witty retort dances on the edge of his tongue, but he feels something like a blush work its way to his cheeks, so he pushes himself off the wall and up to a standing position. He offers her a hand.

“Come on,” he says, pulling her to her feet. “I’m willing to bet you need a place to stay tonight?”

“I don’t want to intrude,” she says cautiously.

“Don’t worry,” he tells her, nodding back towards the market. “It’s not that kind of place.”

“If you say so,” she says, still unsure but following him anyway.

“What do I call you, anyway?” Jet asks her. She’ll be given a new nickname soon enough, but he needs something in the meantime.

“Song. My name is Song.”

-

-

-

She opens up to him quickly, telling him about how the Fire Nation took her father away during a raid, but how the battle was so hard-fought the firebenders suffered greatly.

“They needed healers,” Song says sadly. “My mother’s the best you’ll find, outside of the Water Tribe. She agreed to go, but only if she could heal our people as well.”

“What happened to you?” They’re nearly to the camp, and she has her long dress gathered up around the ankles so as not to trip in the footfalls of the forest.

“She didn’t want me to be a prisoner. A few healers were left behind. They...looked after me for a while,” Song tells him sadly. “But we weren’t safe for long. We got separated a few years later.”

“How long has it been since you saw your parents?” he asks, stopping abruptly. She nearly crashes into him, but manages to stop short as well.

“Seven years,” she answers, and when he turns to look at her, she makes no effort to hide her grief.

“Eight for me,” says Jet, meeting her eyes. “They killed my parents in front of me.” Song gasps.

“I’m so sorry,” Song reaches out to touch his arm. “That’s - oh, Jet, that’s horrible.”

“Dead, imprisoned,” Jet says bitterly. “What difference does it make? The Fire Nation treats them all the same.”

Song looks away.

“Maybe,” she concedes, “but I still hope I’ll see them again. I have to.”

A thousand speeches about the savagery of the Fire Nation die on his tongue. He knows Song’s parents are dead, as sure as he knows his own are, but telling her as much won’t do anything to help her.

“I understand,” he says, even though he doesn’t. She smiles brightly at him.

“So where’s this camp?” Song asks, looking around. “It’d be really disappointing if you brought me all the way out her just to kill me.”

He grins at her.

“Hang on,” he says smugly, moving to hook an arm around her waist. She jumps back.

“M-my leg,” Song stutters. “It’s - it’s sore.” She moves around to Jet’s other side.

Jet raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. He grabs a rope, hidden cleverly among the vines, and then they’re soaring into the treetops.

When they make it up top, Jet is polite enough not to comment on Song’s dazzled expression.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says huffily, but her eyes are alight with excitement. “You knew that would be impressive.”

So he can’t keep the smug look off his face, big deal. At this point, it’s just his face.

He’d already informed the others he planned to bring in a new recruit, though he hadn’t mentioned anything about a girl. For the most part, they seem fine with it. Pipsqueak and the Duke welcome her heartily, and Longshot bows his head politely.

Sneers, however, makes his reservations known.

“We can’t spend all our time protecting a girl,” he says roughly.

“We protect the kids all the time,” says Pipsqueak, gesturing to the shelters behind them. “What’s the difference?”

“I don’t need protection!” the Duke yells indignantly.

Seeing as you’re six, you do, actually, Jet thinks.

“Neither does Song,” is what he says instead. “She can handle herself.” He looks pointedly at Sneers.

“But I’m not much of a fighter,” Song admits. Sneers raises his eyebrows.

“It’s not because I’m a girl,” she says quickly, moving to undo the ribbon around her dress. A second ribbon lies beneath it, and sewn onto the silk are several vials.

“I know medicine,” she explains. “I can help, but I’m probably better here at the camp.”

Sneers opens his mouth again, but Song cuts him off.

“And I won’t be doing all the cooking and cleaning, so don’t expect me to,” she adds with a note of finality. Pipsqueak chuckles.

“Don’t worry,” he says in his booming voice, throwing an arm around her shoulder, “I’m the cook around here.”

“Yeah, because no one else can feed your appetite,” Sneers comments. Everyone laughs - even the stoic Longshot cracks a smile.

And just like that, Song’s a Freedom Fighter.


	2. so scared to go alone

Song tiptoes around the camp like she’s walking on eggshells, so Jet asks in a definitely-not-teasing voice if she’s afraid of heights.

“No,” she says primly, clutching the nearest railing with such force that her knuckles are white, “I just don’t trust your architectural ability.”

Even though everyone is varying levels of welcoming, with the exception of Sneers, Song still settles in awkwardly to her new home. Jet introduces her to the dozen or so kids they’re looking after, and though she’s very kind to them, there’s a disconnect. It takes her almost a week to even consider finding clothes that won’t get tangled in branches and floorboards. Jet loans her a faded white tunic and a pair of brown trousers.

“It’s getting chilly,” he tells her as she layers socks on so as to keep the too-big boots they’d found for her from falling off her feet.

“It’s barely autumn,” she replies, standing to test out the feel of the shoes. “But I guess I’ll need some warmer clothes soon.”

“We’ll find you something on our next raid,” he says flippantly, grinning at the way the boots flop around. “You don’t mind red do you?”

Sneers eventually digs out an old pair of boots and offers them to Song gruffly, so one problem at least is solved. But she’s still only in a light cotton shirt when the warm summer breeze turns to a chill. Jet spots her wrapped in a new quilt or blanket every few hours.

“Don’t tell me you keep losing them. I loaned you my quilt this morning!” booms Pipsqueak playfully. Song’s huddled close to the giant pot he cooks in, her usual spot as of late, and is wrapped in an old flag.

“Goober, I hate that name by the way, his lips were blue,” Song explains, face nearly pressed up against the cast-iron pot. “I couldn’t just leave him like that.”

“The kids usually share,” Jet says, swiping a piece of bread from beside Pipsqueak, who swats at him. “They should know to ask.”

“He’s shy,” Song says defensively, “and small, for his age. It can be hard to stand up for yourself, when you’re little.”

The bitter part of Jet thinks Goober needs to toughen up. He shakes his head to clear the nastiness away - they’re all tired and haven’t had a good haul in almost a month. It’s easy, in moments like these, to forget who he’s angry at.

“I’ll check in on them tonight,” Jet says in answer. “Make sure they’ve all got something.”

Song inclines her head thankfully, and goes back to appearing as though she’s trying to melt into the cooking pot.

“Maybe I’ll scrounge up something for you, too,” he says, not even bothering to keep the laugh out of his voice.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” she says contentedly, “I live here now.”

“Oh no you don’t, this is my kitchen-“

Slowly, very slowly, Song and the younger kids warm up to each other, which is good, because Song needs all the warmth she can get. Jet and Pipsqueak have always been the kids’ guardians, but the bigger their little orphanage gets, the harder it is to keep track of every ankle-biter. So Jet’s fairly relieved when Song begins to attract the quieter ones.

Song, it seems, is relieved as well. She’s posted, as usual, at the cooking pot, but at Pipsqueak’s side. His cooking has significantly improved since Song introduced him to something called spices. Four children, including the Duke, flank her and Pipsqueak.

“-and I can climb the trees all the way to the top, without ropes, but I don’t, because Pipsqueak says I’ll lose my arm,” the Duke is enthusiastically telling the other children, who are wrapped in what looks like a platypus-bearskin rug.

“Break your arm, the Duke,” Pipsqueak corrects, “I said you’d break your arm.”

“Oh yeah. Anyway, what kind of animal would you want to be if you could be one? I would want to be a great big hawk, so I could fly and eat things!” The Duke demonstrates this desire by spreading his arms wide and zooming around the cooking pot.

“Careful, the Duke, this is hot,” Song says gently, side-stepping so that the boy’s path doesn’t come too close to the pot.

“I’d be a rabaroo,” says a little girl Jet recalls as being nicknamed Dewdrop, “because I think they’re pretty.”

“I’d be a hog-monkey,” giggles a skinny girl with the unmistakable sign of a burn on the back of her neck.

“That’s what we’ll have to call you then,” says Pipsqueak. “Your new name’s Hogmonkey.” The girl giggles some more.

“What would you be, Goober?” asks the Duke, who hasn’t stopped running in circles. It’d make Jet dizzy if he weren’t used to the boy’s antics.

“I don’t know,” says Goober, eyes immediately darting to Song. “I’m scared of animals.”

“Why?” the Duke asks incredulously, as though this is the most ridiculous statement in the world. Goober shakes his head nervously and huddles even further into himself.

"Rhinos," is all Goober says. Jet stiffens.

"What's the supposed to mean?" the Duke asks. The other children look curiously over at Goober. Jet wants to explain, wants to talk about what rhinos mean, when they're from the Fire Nation, but when he goes to speak he chokes on the words.

"Oh, rhinos are frightening," Song says sagely, moving to sit with the children. Dewdrop doesn't hesitate, she clambers right into the older girl's lap. Song's eyes widen in surprise, but she very quickly smiles and begins petting the child's hair.

"But not all animals are rhinos," says the Duke, "that's basic psychology."

"I think you mean biology...maybe," chimes in Pipsqueak, not bothering to look up from his cooking.

"That's true, the Duke," Song agrees thoughtfully. Goober is clutching her arm nervously. "We'll have to find you a little animal, Goober. One you can warm up to."

"Only if you want to," Song adds upon noticing Goober's frightened grimace.

"We can go cat-catching!" announces the Duke, thrusting his fist into the air triumphantly. Song's eyebrows shoot up into her hair.

"Only if I can come with," says Jet, which is another way of saying he'll supervise.

Later, when they're all getting ready for bed, Jet tells her privately she's good with the kids.

"They need a mom, you know?" he says, and he means it as a compliment. Song looks taken aback.

"I'm not their mom," she says, slowly, like he's being dense. "I'm 13."

"I know," Jet says, eyebrows furrowed. He doesn't think she's a grown-up or anything. He searches for something else to say. "I just mean, you, you know. You're...good at it. With the quiet ones." Song still doesn't seem impressed, but she relents.

"I know how it feels to be forgotten," is all the explanation she gives him, and then she bids him goodnight. Jet's not really sure why, but he can tell he's said something to upset her. He thought she'd be happy to know she works so well with the kids. Sneers can barely talk to a child without scaring them, and it frustrates him to no end.

Jet knows enough about people to drop the subject, though, so he does. Some things about Song don't make sense, and that's fine. Some things about Jet don't make sense either, and she doesn't question that, so why should he?

The days gets colder and colder, and still Song has yet to find anything suitable to wear. Some of the children cuddle up to her when they’re feeling affectionate, but kids like playing and more often than not she’s left to suffer alone. One particularly windy day she leans against a makeshift wall that blocks out the worst of the bitter cold, but Jet can tell by her shivering that it’s not totally effective.

"Turns out I'm not much for the outdoors," Song says through chattering teeth.

“We’re planning a raid for next week,” he tells her, shrugging of his coat and holding it out as an offering. “I’ll find you something, don’t worry.”

She looks up at him and shakes her head.

“I can’t take that, you’ll freeze,” she says. “Besides, I’m fine here.”

“You’re an icicle,” Jet replies, rolling his eyes. “I’m going to spar with Sneers, I’ll be warmed up in no time.”

Song frowns but eventually accepts the warm clothing, wrapping it around herself and sighing contentedly. Jet smiles at the sight and turns to leave.

“Can I spar with you sometime?” she asks, just as he’s about to descend to the forest floor. The question catches him off-guard.

“I thought you said you don’t want to fight?”

“I said I don’t know how,” Song corrects him. “But I feel like I should learn, in case I need to defend the camp.”

“No one’s getting up here,” he assures her.

“I’d still like to learn,” she says quietly, disappointment obvious. It’s not that he doesn’t want to teach her, it’s just that...

Actually, Jet can’t think of one good reason she shouldn’t fight. He’s always pictured Song here, safe and hidden, but that’s a pretty bad excuse considering they bring the Duke with them sometimes.

“Okay,” Jet says grinning. “Let’s go.”

“What, now?” Song says, looking around as though she’ll be ambushed at any moment.

“Yes now,” he says, mimicking her sweet voice and sticking his tongue out. Song shoots him an irritated look, but she stands anyway, joining him by the ropes.

Jet gives her a once-over before tugging on the handhold, and clamps down the nagging voice that wonders if he’s making a huge mistake. Song nearly killed him when they first met, he reminds himself. She’ll be fine.

-

-

-

Fine turns out to be a little bit of an overstatement.

Jet had given her a wooden sword that the kids play with, and grabbed a tree branch for himself. Sneers had made his feelings on the matter very clear by the way he pouted and grunted from his tree stump seat, but Jet ignored him, reminding Sneers that he was the one who didn’t want to have to get stuck rescuing Song in the first place.

But it wasn’t going well. She swung the sword awkwardly, even as he patiently explained over and over how to counterbalance the weight. It wasn’t even heavy, but Jet could tell Song was struggling to hold it up. Sneers laughed, sharp and mean, every time she messed up. Her long braid was coming undone with the effort she put forth - Jet needed a new angle.

“Okay, let’s take a break,” he says after two hours with no improvement. Song is red-faced and panting, Jet’s coat long discarded, but she shows no signs of slowing.

“I can do it,” she says, breathing heavily.

“Not likely,” mutter Sneers. Song glares at him.

“It’s no big deal,” Jet says easily, hands held up innocently, stepping smoothly in front of Sneers so as to distract Song. “Swords aren’t the only weapons in the world. Longshot, come here.”

The silent archer had been practicing a little ways over, totally disinterested in Jet and Song’s efforts. He moves over to them, eyebrows raised curiously.

“You think you could give Song a few shooting lessons?” Jet asks. He’s not sure how this is gonna go - Longshot always practices alone, away from the chaos and noise of the Freedom Fighters. But Longshot barely hesitates, he just nods his head and hands Song his bow, gesturing back towards the clearing where he’d been practicing.

They shoot for the better part of the afternoon while Jet and Sneers spar. Jet has to hand it to her - what Song lacks in skill she makes up for in fortitude, never once stopping for a break while he and Sneers take several. Jet doesn’t really know if Longshot will be a good teacher, seeing as he doesn’t talk, but as afternoon drifts into evening Jet notes that she stops missing the trees they’re using as targets entirely. She doesn’t quite make bullseyes, but it’s a start.

“Longshot said I’m getting better at my consistency!” Song tells Jet excitedly when they ascend back to the camp for dinner.

“He said that?” Sneers repeats in disbelief. Longshot nods.

“Well, he indicated it,” Song clarifies, eyes sparkling and smiling broadly. Jet smiles back at her, her joy contagious. It’s very liberating, being able to fend for yourself. He’s willing to bet she’s never been given an opportunity like this before. Jet finds himself wondering just how much of Song’s survival was sheer luck.

At dinner Song chats happily with Pipsqueak, telling him everything she’s learned while she helps him serve. Pipsqueak comments that he’s never seen her so passionate about something - maybe he ought to teach her what he knows as well.

“Somehow I don’t think that would work,” Song says as politely as she can.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks the larger boy obliviously.

“It means your fighting strategy mostly involves knocking skulls together,” Jet answers while tearing through some particularly stringy meat. Pipsqueak guffaws in delight.

“That camp better move into the valley soon,” Sneers says darkly, picking through his food. “I’m sick of eating rubber.” A few of the younger kids assert their agreement.

“We’ll bring back a feast soon enough,” Jet says confidently, loud enough for everyone to hear. “And remind those useless Fire Nation thieves who this land really belongs to.” The kids cheer. Out of the corner of his eye, Jet noticed Song grinning ear-to-ear.

The following day they train around the same time, Song with Longshot and Jet with Sneers. Song seems to have forgotten most of her lessons from Longshot, however, and the arrows are landing in the bushes, among the leaves, up in the branches. After an hour she and Longshot come trudging over to Jet and Sneers.

“What’s the matter?” Sneers teases. “Get your first lesson in beginner’s luck?” Jet elbows him.

In response, Longshot holds up one of Song’s hands. It’s cracked and bleeding and covered in calluses. Jet glances at her other hand and finds the same injuries there.

“I need gloves, or at least wraps, apparently,” Song says, hanging her head in dejection. Longshot pats her back, and Song smiles gratefully at him. Apparently he’s easier to understand than Jet previously believed.

“Maybe we can cut up one of the flags,” Sneers offers, clearly feeling guilty.

“I have medicine and wraps up top, but I’m done shooting for now,” Song says. If Jet’s not mistaken, Longshot looks a little disappointed. “I might come back and watch you guys, just to avoid the wind.”

Song does exactly as she had suggested, sitting beside a fallen log and wearing Jet’s coat upon his insistence, hands tucked under her arms. She switches which side of the log she sits on, sometimes watching Jet and Sneers, sometimes watching Longshot. He knows she doesn’t mean to distract them, but the crestfallen look on her face is killing Jet.

“Hey,” he says to Sneers, an idea forming. “You don’t really need nimble fingers to hold knives, right?”

“Wrong,” Sneers lies. “Don’t think for a second I’m teaching that princess.”

“Come on, you owe it to her,” Jet presses. “Especially after being such a dick before.” Sneers grimaces.

“Song, get over here,” he says bitterly. Jet smirks.

“What do you want?” she asks him suspiciously.

“To not get killed if you ever tag along on a mission,” Sneers retorts, handing her a pair of knives. “Hold these. No, not like that.”

Jet finds some wheat and chews on it, taking over Song’s spot. Longshot meanders over eventually, perching on top of the log like a strange, gangly bird.

“Is that comfortable?” Jet asks him. Longshot shrugs, making a tent out of fingers and leaning his chin on them. Well, Song may have Longshot figured out, but he’s still a mystery to Jet.

Sneers isn’t going easy on Song, not even in the slightest. She gets nicked a couple of times, and Jet would be concerned, but Song doesn’t cry, she just hisses and goes right back to dodging and swiping. As they fight, Sneers’s face goes from bored, to contemptuous, to finally engaged. He’s not terribly light on his feet, and Song almost catches him a few times.

“Okay,” says Sneers, huffing a little, “see if you can block me - remember, you’re going for the upper arms.”

Song nods, but when Sneers lunges she doesn’t do as he says - she ducks and swipes up, cutting Sneers in his side. Sneers lets out a yell and Song panics, eyes widening.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I-“

“Are you kidding?” Sneers interrupts her delightedly, “that was great!”

Longshot holds out the medical supplies Song had been smart enough to bring down with her, and she begins bandaging the shallow cut in Sneers’s side, Sneers complimenting her technique all the while.

“I like shooting,” Song says as she works, “but I think I’m gonna try knives, okay Longshot?” Longshot smiles, bowing his head.

When they get back up top, Jet nudges Sneers.

“Not teaching the princess, huh?” Jet asks him. Sneers shakes his head, nudging Jet back, but he’s still smiling.

“Okay, okay,” Sneers confesses, “she’s not that bad.”

They spend the next few days sparring, and eventually Pipsqueak joins them. He and Sneers go hand-to-hand one morning, leaving Jet and Song to practice on each other. To Jet’s surprise, she does much better, avoiding his hook swords with quick dodges, and managing to get in a few jabs of her own. They’ve wrapped the blades of the knives with cloth so thick that they won’t draw blood if she makes contact - she’s still learning control.

“You’re getting the hang of this,” Jet tells her mid-fight. She grins broadly, surging forward.

“I know,” she agrees, blade to his throat. The position feels oddly familiar, and Jet bursts with pride. A month ago Song was afraid to hold a needle. Now she’s fighting with confidence and purpose. He’s seen it before, with Sneers and Pipsqueak, and with himself. It’s a beautiful thing every time.

In the evening, after dinner while everyone is joking around, Song picks at her braid, just as she has every evening this week. She carefully undoes the long, silky hair, extricating every leaf and twig, combing away the dirt with her finger tips. Then she carefully redoes the braid.

“Why do ya keep braiding your hair if it’s just gonna get dirty?” the Duke asks her curiously. Jet’s been wondering the same thing himself.

“Someone could grab you by that braid,” Sneers points out without venom, trying to offer genuine advice. “It might get you killed.”

“My father used to do my mother’s hair every morning, and then he’d do mine,” Song says wistfully, tying off the bottom. “I don’t have much left of him, besides this.”

The camp goes quiet, and Jet tries to figure out something funny or encouraging to say, to distract everyone. Mentioning parents sets some of the kids off almost immediately, and once one cries, the rest follow suit. Before he can, however, Longshot stands suddenly and sits beside Song, motioning for her to turn around. Song eyes him curiously, but does as he requests.

Longshot picks the braid up and begins coiling it on top of Song’s head. He moves slowly and purposefully, making sure the snake-like hair is even and stable, and then pins down the strange bun. When he’s finished, it looks like she’s wearing a crown.

“Wow,” breathes Dewdrop. Goober, who had been sitting beside Song as per usual, reaches up to touch the hair reverently.

“You look like a queen,” says the Duke. Jet has to agree. Pipsqueak snaps his fingers, breaking the spell Longshot had cast.

“There it is then!” Pipsqueak booms. “From now on, you’re called Queen.”

“Better than princess,” Song says, casting a meaningful look Sneers’s way. He has the good sense to look bashful.

The children rush over to Longshot in a wave, yelling about wanting to look like Queen, wanting braids, wanting their hair to look fancy. Longshot appears overwhelmed until Song rests a gentle hand on his arm and assures him she will help.

In the early morning, before they head out to the raid, the newly-named Queen makes sure they’re all stocked and ready. She implores them to use their bird calls if anyone gets hurt, insists that she’ll come to them.

“Thanks, Queen,” Jet says, putting emphasis on her name. She makes a face.

“What, you don’t like it?” he asks seriously. She makes a non-comittal sound.

“It’s very flattering,” Queen admits, “but it doesn’t really feel like me.”

“Can’t argue with the people,” Jet says shrugging. “But I’ll see if I can get something else going.”

“No, don’t,” Queen says hurriedly. “It was a gift from all of you - I’m keeping it.”

When they return late that evening, sporting plenty of bruises and laden with treasures and treats, Jet, Pipsqueak, Longshot, and Sneers proudly present Queen with a thick, hand-knit shawl. It’s a deep brown, the color of the trees they live in. Queen accepts it with tears in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispers, pulling all four of them into a hug. Jet sighs in relief when each boy reciprocates heartily.

Finally, Jet thinks, she seems at home.


End file.
